


Understanding

by Nuanta



Series: Boomerang [2]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Agarthan Crest/Blood Harvesting, Experimentation, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, Torture, Whump, mentions of past ferdibert
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-29
Updated: 2020-11-29
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:22:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27785941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nuanta/pseuds/Nuanta
Summary: Ferdinand abandoned the Empire in the middle of a war, unable to reconcile Edelgard's values with his own, nor the secrets she kept. Even when he found himself a prisoner to his former homeland, he'd held strong to his beliefs.Until he learns the truth. Firsthand.Or: The Ferdinand POV redux of Boomerang chapter 8. Extra context in the notes for those who want to read it as a standalone.
Series: Boomerang [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2032738
Comments: 7
Kudos: 30





	Understanding

**Author's Note:**

> My contribution to the FE3H Whump Week, for the Day 1 prompt: Torture! As soon as I got wind of this event a few months ago, I knew exactly what I wanted to write. The challenge was ensuring I'd get chapter 8 of Boomerang out in time. But I did it, so here we are!
> 
> Extra context for people who would like to read this as a standalone: Boomerang is set in a canon-divergent CF route where Ferdinand defects to the Alliance in the middle of the war because he cannot agree with Edelgard's values and secrets. (This means breaking up with Hubert, his newfound lover, as well.) But he is eventually captured at Myrddin and taken prisoner. Hubert visits him in his cell and they have a massive and emotional argument about all the secrets kept, and Hubert snaps and tells Ferdinand all about the Agarthans and the horrors they've wrought. Then, a fit of rage causes Hubert to make a disastrous mistake: he accidentally gives Arundel permission to experiment on Ferdinand. And so here are the consequences.
> 
> If you don't like the sound of this, or the tags, this fic is probably not for you. Please do what you need to do to take care of yourselves.

Ferdinand is cold.

It’s nothing new. It shouldn’t be, what with the cool air of the underground constantly permeating his skin, almost like a foreign outer layer that can’t be shed to coat him. His threadbare clothing does nothing to keep it out, and there is no comfortable position to sit or lay in to avoid the chilled walls or ground. After so long in the monastery dungeons—two months? Three? He’s lost track at this point—he’s grown accustomed to it, to an extent. Evidently this climate is not so debilitating if his fingertips and toes haven’t numbed over, and is merely used to generate discomfort.

That is all right. Ferdinand can handle discomfort.

This cold is different.

It comes from inside him, a frozen vice grip within his chest that he cannot evade. For how can he escape the knowledge that Hubert saddled him with? All of those secrets he and Edelgard had kept hidden from him—from _everyone_ —now bounce off the walls of his brain, ruthlessly pummeling their truths into him. A history of abuse, of neglect, of a covert war fought in the shadows, all in the name of safeguarding the well-being of everyone else around them. Edelgard and Hubert bore that burden alone out of the desire to protect, not alienate.

It all makes sense now. And worst of all, Ferdinand cannot fault them for it. 

Edelgard had been the subject of an experimentation that murdered all of her siblings and left her forever scarred, forever changed. It explained Hubert’s fierce, sometimes frightening and excessive, devotion. Everything he did was to prevent such atrocities from ever happening again. But if these foes, these Agarthans, are as dangerous as Hubert says, then moving against them would be like treading on eggshells.

That’s why Hubert hadn’t told him everything. If they were allied with the enemy—an unthinkable union, and yet—then no matter how fervently Ferdinand might have sworn to keep mum, there was no telling who might overhear, or how information could leak into the wrong hands. The more people in the know, the more precarious the situation becomes.

And what’s more, what’s worse, and Ferdinand shivers with it, is the way that _I gave everything to you_ rattles beneath his ribcage, makes his chest feel too tight. Because what defines everything here? Is it fully comprehensive, or does it only include everything he possibly could have given safely?

Is this why Edelgard was so adamant about destroying the nobility? Had the snakes rooted so deeply within, festering in such great numbers that there was no choice but to cull it, no way to preserve its integrity lest the entire system be purged and rebuilt from scratch?

Or not rebuilt at all. This triggers so many more unanswered questions than ever before, and Ferdinand doesn’t—how can he doubt his decision now, two and a half, three years later? How can he be sure staying would have made some sort of difference? How does he _know_?

He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know much of anything, really.

It topples the basis of all his foundations. The veil of pretty illusion has given way to dark reality, dread sending gooseflesh prickling through every inch of him, his stomach dropping to a bottomless pit, his lungs burning with a relentless ache.

And for all the unknowns vying for purchase within his mind, all he feels is empty.

How long has it been since Hubert left him with this mess? Minutes, hours, days? Ferdinand doesn’t know. He’s long stopped trying to keep track of time since he’s been here. He’d thought he was able to at first, relying on his internal clock to set him straight, but Hubert’s men were talented at sowing confusion. Their interrogations were not on a rigid schedule, and that made grasping time all the more difficult. Sometimes it felt like no time had passed at all between sessions; other times it felt like several days, maybe even weeks.

How long does Hubert intend to leave him here like this? What does he intend to do?

Does Ferdinand deserve this?

 _It is the only way_ , Edelgard would say. And yet, Ferdinand would fight, and fight, and fight. Every objection a little dagger in her, that she could not reveal her reasoning, that her advisor did not trust her.

With his father under house arrest, Ferdinand had been left with nothing: no title, no estate, no assets. As a general, his stipends never left him wanting, and his place at Edelgard’s round table had nonetheless been secure. Ferdinand had vowed, back then, to uphold the values of a Prime Minister anyways, to prove that he still merited that title more than anyone else ever could.

That meant being forthright when Edelgard’s actions were suspicious, or inefficient, or when there were fallacies in her logic. So Ferdinand could not be wrong in arguing against her when he did not have the whole picture to base his judgments on!

And yet. If he had simply trusted in her plans, this wouldn’t be an issue.

If he dishonored the role of Prime Minister.

For there can be no blind trust with stakes as high as these. Ferdinand very nearly sobs, a wretched croaking noise, his throat hoarse from dehydration and lack of use. He desperately wishes there was no room for regret, because to hesitate now, to lose all his ardent conviction, the heart and soul of who he is—

Who is he, then?

He curls in on himself as the world shakes apart around him.

~o~

The flash of magical fire bursts red and bright beneath his eyelids, and then several figures are marching up to his cell and unlocking the door.

They are clad in dark robes, their faces obscured with masks. Except these are not the usual masks of Hubert’s underlings. As they file into his cell and encircle him, Ferdinand is filled with a horrible sinking sensation.

These must be the Agarthans. Arundel’s henchmen. The people Hubert loathes more than anything else in the world.

And he’s sent them to Ferdinand.

He doesn’t mean to resist. It’s futile, he knows, sapped of his physical strength as he is, from all this time spent in the dungeons. And he’s surrounded by powerful mages, ones that are capable of subduing him with one well-placed spell.

But when they lay hands on him to divest him of his shirt, Ferdinand punches one in the face.

The Agarthan yelps as the mask is knocked askew, but Ferdinand isn’t able to get a glimpse of their features. Another swoops in to take their place, and then white fire is coursing through Ferdinand’s veins, every muscle and nerve spasming uncontrollably, no defenses against Thoron. Helpless to act, he grits his teeth as his shirt is tugged unceremoniously over his head and arms, and his pants are yanked down so that he’s in nothing but his smalls as he’s jerked to his feet.

He tries to kick once the spell wears off, but his pants are still tangled at his ankles. They’re holding his arms outstretched on either side of him, but he squirms nonetheless. One seizes his wrist; he doesn’t need well-trained muscles to break free, just a precise angled twist that causes the Agarthan to gasp and release him. Ferdinand tries to land another blow, but every time one Agarthan retreats, it seems like two more appear in its place.

Another Thoron hits him then, and Ferdinand refrains from crying out as all of his muscles lock. He will not give them the satisfaction, not as he trembles through the aftershocks, not as they manipulate his body and sweep him off his feet until the world is spinning and he’s horizontal.

A cloud of something puffs in his face, and Ferdinand coughs once, twice, before all of his senses numb over and the world fades to black.

~o~

He wakes up paralyzed.

He heaves a gulp of air in a panic, and then starts when his fingers twitch. He wiggles his toes with success, and is about to sigh with relief when feeling returns to the rest of his body.

He is lying on his back, and he is strapped to a table so tightly he can barely shift at all.

What’s more, when he cranes his head to look, he sees at least two dozen tubes protruding from his body, needles poking into his skin. There is a brilliant light shining directly overhead, illuminating the tubing as they entwine and converge into some sort of large contraption standing next to him.

Ferdinand realizes that he can’t hear himself breathe.

He can’t hear anything.

The table is surrounded by more Agarthans, maybe the same ones as before, maybe not. He has no way of discerning when they all dress the same. They gesture to each other as if conversing, but Ferdinand’s ears cannot attune to any of it. It’s as if they are waterlogged, but worse, like there’s something clogging them with no filter for sound to pass through.

It has to be intentional.

Three of the masks turn to him.

Ferdinand steels himself and glares at them. They react by approaching him by the head of the table, and as he fidgets to see what they’re doing he notices one of them retrieving a metal cage from somewhere. A muzzle, or something akin to one.

Then it descends upon his face.

There is no escape, no way to wrest loose. The cage clamps him firmly in place, forces his chin upwards so that his eyes are locked on the ceiling, on a spot just next to those intense lights that make his eyes water and squint. Dark barriers block his periphery, so there is nothing else to look at.

Ferdinand blinks the mist out of his eyes, and then a shadow hangs over him. A face swims into focus overhead, blocking out most of the light. Even then, there is no mistaking those pale violet eyes, sharp and perceptive, or that particular shade of brown hair, so similar to what Edelgard once had, a long time ago.

Lord Volkhard von Arundel looms over him, sporting the most covetous smile Ferdinand has ever seen in his life. It makes him want to crawl out of his skin.

He’d left the Empire to be his own man, to follow his own path. Perhaps there had been a chance for him to still do so under Edelgard’s rule. But under this man, Ferdinand knows, with absolute, blood-curdling certainty—he is nothing more than a pawn.

Arundel’s lips move, but no sound penetrates the plugs they’ve given him. Ferdinand can only hope he’s made the disgust on his face clear, that Arundel won’t perceive the underlying terror.

Something must steal his attention, for he straightens out of view, causing the lights to beam into Ferdinand’s face once more and temporarily blind him. He squeezes his eyes shut, willing the spots in his vision to disappear.

A cold, clammy hand strokes its way through the cage and down his cheek, to cradle his jaw.

Ferdinand flinches.

Then the table rumbles with an undeniable tremor.

He cannot hear it, but he knows something is in motion, something is very wrong. His skin pinches, like something is pulling on it, at every point of contact with the needles littered across his body. He instinctively tries to shy away from it, but he is cornered, trapped.

That sucking sensation intensifies, and suddenly, it’s accompanied by the most bone-deep agony Ferdinand has ever felt in his life.

He’s screaming before he even registers what he’s doing.

The pain is everywhere.

He is being stretched thinner than he can go; he is being shredded apart. His blood is ablaze, searing through him as it’s funneled out and away, and he absurdly wonders how he has the stamina to yell when they’re draining him dry.

The familiar pulse of his crest of Cichol beats in tandem with his bleeding heart, and somehow it’s worse, like it’s not just him that’s hurting, but his crest, his entire lineage, like this is torturing all the previous Cichol crest bearers whose blood he now carries. It flares to roaring life and he cannot stop it, cannot contain it, and the tubes zap that power away just as readily, as if attempting to tear out the very essence of him.

He dimly recognizes that he’s still howling in anguish from the grating knives in his throat. He might be crying; he can’t feel anything else, not when his body is a singular bright point of pain, all encompassing, too much, please, please make it stop—

It doesn’t stop.

A voice, a recent memory, sifts through the torment: _You want to understand what all of this is about? I’ll make you understand. And then you’ll wish I’d signed you off to the executioner’s block instead._

He understands now. He understands what Edelgard went through. He understands what Hubert was furtively protecting him from for so long.

But no longer.

In this moment, skewered apart by suffering beyond imagination—

He hates Hubert for doing this to him. Hates himself for allowing things to come to this.

It would have been easier if Hubert had just killed him.

At some point, the machine stops vibrating. His throat aches and his body convulses, jolts of pain ricocheting from one limb to the next. His vision is watery and blurred.

He will not cry. His eyes sting and his head spins and he hurts, so, so much.

He does not cry as the cage is removed from his head and the ear plugs follow, even as the abrupt influx of sound overwhelms his senses and makes his head throb with an added viciousness.

He chokes back whimpers through swollen, bitten lips as the needles are wrenched from him; wetness trickles like snakes slinking across his skin. He is too woozy to tilt his neck to see; he does not want to see.

Voices echo all around him; it is dizzying. They garble all together, sinister and loud. There is no way to make it stop. Why won’t it stop?

One source cuts through the rest. He cannot locate it; he feels its devastating malice everywhere, down to the aching core of him.

“I think the von Vestra boy enjoyed that, don’t you?”

He swore he wouldn’t, and yet _this_ —

Ferdinand weeps.

**Author's Note:**

> [@nuanta_fic](https://twitter.com/nuanta_fic)


End file.
